


heavenly surrender, sweet afterglow

by palmcitrus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 70’s music, Astronomy, Drunk Singing, Drunk crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Repression, talking about Before, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmcitrus/pseuds/palmcitrus
Summary: Sometimes, Aziraphale gets a feeling.He never acknowledges it, at least not consciously. Sometimes when it comes he thinks hazily, in the back of his mind,I wonder if there are words for this.But the subconscious keeps a tight hold on that thought, never lets it quite float to the front of his mind.





	heavenly surrender, sweet afterglow

**Author's Note:**

> or: Crowley gets drunk and reveals a bit more than he meant, and Aziraphale finds words for things he’s always left unsaid.
> 
> (Russian translation available here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8943221 . Thanks so much to fowerol for the translation!)

Crowley holds the door for Aziraphale, as he almost always does, as the two of them leave the coffee shop. 

”That place isn’t bad at all,” Aziraphale says. “Quite a good pastry selection they have.”

They’ve been doing this more often, visiting tiny local shops and restaurants, since they’ve started godfathering Warlock. It’s been nine years, and it feels good to spend so much time together. There is lots of work to be done, but there’s also lots of free time, especially now that the young Antichrist isn’t so young anymore. 

”Their pastry selection doesn’t mean much when their coffee’s rubbish,” Crowley replies. “They are a _coffee shop,_ after all. It’s not that hard to make good coffee.”

“Well, they still deserve some credit,” Aziraphale says primly. “Small business, and all that. Difficult to get a start-up going in this economy, you know.”

Crowley smiles, and Aziraphale can’t see past the dark glasses, but he knows he’s rolling his eyes. He returns the smile, then glances up at the sky.

“Looks as if it’s going to rain.”

“Big shocker there,” Crowley says. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get back to Warlock’s place. That nanny getup isn’t easy to get into, you know.”

Aziraphale makes it to the Bentley first, and on a whim, grabs the driver’s-side door and holds it open for Crowley. The demon looks up from behind his glasses, surprised.

“Thanks,” he says, and Aziraphale shrugs.

“Just doing my angelic duty, dear,” he says.

Crowley watches him for a moment longer, then nods once sharply and shuts the door. Aziraphale might be imagining it, but it feels as if he drives a bit faster than normal.

  
  


It’s March of 1800, and the streets of London are just starting to thaw. Crowley, who has been hanging around Aziraphale the past few months since they got together to celebrate the turn of the century, is in a noticeably good mood. It’s the weather, the angel thinks to himself. Crowley has always preferred to be warm. It’s the snake in him, he supposes. Or the demon.

Not that it’s _sunny_ out—the sky is gray and gloomy overhead. It is England, after all.

Still. Crowley seems happy.

It occurs to Aziraphale that Crowley being happy might not actually be such a great thing as he watches the demon snap his fingers, causing a man who had been ogling a woman walking past to smack his head into a pole.

“Come on, my dear, really,” Aziraphale says, scowling.

“What? He should’ve been paying attention.”

“Still. Quite rude of you.”

“Ahh, you love it,” Crowley says, his grin wide. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes in exasperation and pretends not to notice the twinge of heat in his cheeks. “I most certainly do not.”

“You’re an angel, you love everything,” Crowley reminds him, holding his palm out in front of him. It has begun to rain. He miracles an umbrella and hands it to Aziraphale, who opens it over both of them.

“Most everything,” Aziraphale retorts. “You’re a demon. You don’t fall under that umbrella.” He glances up. “Er—no pun intended.”

Aziraphale sees Crowley look over at him in his periphery, but doesn’t look back. “Really,” he says. “I don’t _fall under that umbrella_. You couldn’t love a demon at all.” It’s said like a statement, but Aziraphale recognizes the question of it.

“Well, we’re natural enemies, aren’t we? It’s built into who we are. I should think it’s impossible.”

“You don’t believe that,” Crowley says.

“I most certainly do. It’s in our natures.”

Aziraphale glances back at him.

Crowley has slowed his stride, and is several paces behind him, now. He’s staring, but his glasses make his face unreadable. The grin is gone from his face.

There’s a moment where Aziraphale feels sharply aware that he’s said something wrong, but he pushes it away uncomfortably. It’s the truth, isn’t it? Crowley can’t fault him for speaking the truth. It’s his angelic duty.

“Well. Suppose you’re right,” Crowley finally mumbles, and catches back up to him. He avoids Aziraphale’s eyes and stands farther away, no longer close enough to be under the umbrella.

  
  


_We spend so much time together lately._ The thought floats through his mind, unexpected but familiar, too. _I’m happy lately. It might be him._

Aziraphale doesn’t usually let himself think things like that.

But now he’s drunk, and Crowley is here, and he’s drunk, too, and the thought doesn’t seem so dangerous. He’s been thinking about Crowley since the coffee shop earlier that morning.

The two of them are sitting in the tiny living area of the guest house where Crowley stays. It’s technically on the Dowlings’ property, but it’s far away enough that they’re not in any danger of being interrupted, especially not this late in the night. The two of them have miracled away their respective Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis costumes. Crowley is in a tank top, Aziraphale notices hazily. He looks good in it. _Really good._

Almost four bottles of wine are gone by the time Aziraphale starts rummaging through his suitcase of books.

“Aaangellllll,” Crowley sings from the floor. “’Ziraphale. You know what was ridiculous?”

“What?”

“The seventies,” he says. Aziraphale looks over at him.

“Why? I thought you loved the seventies. All that young rebellion.”

“I did!” Crowley exclaims. “And they were so, so ridiculous. Maybe that’s why I loved them.”

“Is that so,” Aziraphale hums. “Do explain, dear.”

Crowley adjusts himself, sits up a little straighter. “The _dancing_,” he says. “The clubs. The fashion. The...well, now that I’m thinking about it, it was mostly the music I found ridiculous. Not bad, though. They did have a good sound.”

“Mmm, yes, I can certainly see that. I always liked the music of the forties and fifties more,” Aziraphale says. Swing music had been nice. 

Crowley scoffs. “Oh, please, angel, you only liked the forties because you got to play spy.”

Aziraphale whirls, offended. “Excuse me, I wasn’t _playing spy!”_

Crowley is grinning. “Nah, nah, course not. You were just rubbish at it. I had to come save you.”

Aziraphale rustles. Something in him doesn’t want to bring up that night, not while they’re drunk and joking around. He remembers that moment of holding the books as a sacred moment, and joking about it feels almost...irreverent. “Yes, well. That was only because you’d been playing spy, too. So.” Crowley starts giggling. “What?”

“There’s a seventies song about that,” he says. “So ridiculous.”

“About what?” Aziraphale says, confused.

“I don’t remember all the words,” Crowley says, and then sings, in a ridiculous, over-exaggerated voice, “_dah dah dah...I said, what? She said ooh-wee, I said, all right!”_

Aziraphale laughs. “Crowley, what in Heaven’s name are you talking about—”

“—_she said, love me, love me, love me, undercover angel,_” Crowley sings, ignoring him. He’s still smiling wildly, and Aziraphale stares. “_Midnight fantasy, hmm...I never had a dream that made sweet love to me…_”

“Oh, look, _Pride and Prejudice, _” he announces loudly, picking up the closest book in his line of sight. His face feels pink. Crowley groans, successfully distracted from his song.

”Come on, not that one,” he complains. “It’s so…_romantic._” 

“I know you like this one, dear, and so do I. The prose is excellent and you enjoy happy endings.” 

“Shut up. I don’t.” 

Aziraphale smiles softly, glancing up at him. Crowley’s cheeks have gone red with the alcohol, and he’s grinning back. “Liar,” the angel mutters under his breath. 

“Am not!” Crowley exclaims, but giggles nonetheless. Aziraphale joins in despite himself, letting the alcohol take over. He is quietly glad that those dark sunglasses were abandoned earlier in the night. 

“You _do_. Warlock’s told me about the stories you tell him. Gory, my dear, but there’s always a happy ending to them.” 

“Bullsh—sh—full uh—b’llshit. _Bullshit_. That’s it. You’re full of it.” Crowley is still glowing and giggling from his spot on the floor. He is far drunker than Aziraphale, he realizes, though Aziraphale is far from sober himself. He finds himself watching Crowley’s mouth again, fading into a content smile. _He looks good._

He tears his eyes away. “...As I was saying, the _prose_, my dear, it’s wonderful. I know you might not recognize it all, they changed some of the text when they adapted it into the movie. We watched it recently, that night with that horrible German wine. Don’t you remember?” 

“I do,” Crowley mutters. “’Sgusting.” 

“You miracled it into a better one,” the angel says. “Can’t remember which one it was…” 

Crowley shrugs and sighs, tipping his head back onto the couch. Aziraphale runs his fingers over _Pride and Prejudice_. “Such a good story,” he says. “The love is just so pure. ‘You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you. And wish from this day forth never to be parted from you.’ In the book that whole part goes unsaid, but you’ve always liked movies more than books anyway, haven’t you.” 

There are a few long moments where Aziraphale waits for a response and gets none. He looks up, half-expecting Crowley to have fallen asleep or something, and is startled to find that the smile has faded off of his face, and his yellow eyes are wet. 

“Oh, Crowley, what’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed. 

Crowley blinks a few times, but doesn’t look up at him. “Ah, it’s nothing, angel,” he says, glancing down at the drink in his hand. “Don’t wanna spoil the mood.” 

“You can tell me,” Aziraphale says. 

“It’s just,” Crowley starts, then clears his throat. 

Aziraphale waits. The demon waves one hand noncommittally, and attempts a smile, but abandons it. 

“Have you ever realized that I’m possibly the only creature on earth that is completely, wholly unloved?” 

The question hits Aziraphale like a ton of bricks. 

“I—wh—Crowley…” 

“I don’t really connect with many humans very well,” he lists. “They’re, ah, a bit repulsed by my aura. Satan and the other demons don’t love me, obviously. No love in Hell for little old Crawly. Not that their opinions matter. God doesn’t love me anymore. You—you’re my only real friend, and you _can’t_ love me, you said. So. That leaves nobody.” 

Aziraphale’s instinct is to argue with him, tell him it’s not true. He opens his mouth to say so, but suddenly he remembers everything he’s said, about how he could never love a demon, about how Crowley couldn’t make the list of things Aziraphale loves, about how this can never change because of what he is. He closes his mouth, suddenly paralyzed with guilt. 

“I don’t even love myssself,” Crowley says, his voice wavering dangerously. He lets out a wet, humorless laugh. “Not even clossse.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, stupidly. He knows he should say something. But he has absolutely no idea what. 

The tears are welling up more quickly now. Crowley lets out a shaky breath, and buries his face in his hands. “Why couldn’t I have just kept _quiet?_” he says. He sounds angry. “I had so much, angel, I had it all...I created so many ssstars, so many galaxiesss, and I was so, ssso loved...I had ssso much _love_, Aziraphale, and I gave it up. I gave it up. And for what? Because I’m _ssstupid_ and don’t know when to shut up. I’m bad, I’m a bad person, I always want more...I could have ssstill been lovable, if I’d just—” 

Aziraphale finally moves, rushing over to where Crowley sits on the floor, and wraps his arms around him. Crowley doesn’t respond. 

“You’re not a bad person,” Aziraphale says. 

“I _am_,” Crowley insists miserably. “I alwayss do this. With God. With you. I’m never satisfied with what I have, even when it’s more than I dessserve.” 

Aziraphale pauses. _With him?_

“I didn’t mean to,” he chokes. “I wanted to ssstay. I really did. I never thought She would…” 

Crowley trails off, and Aziraphale’s grip tightens. His own eyes are beginning to fill with tears, now. “Crowley, I’m so sorry,” he whispers into his hair. He knows it’s not enough. 

Crowley leans into him, almost imperceptibly, and cries quietly for a long time. 

Aziraphale’s head is spinning. How can he possibly make this better? And why had he never considered this? Crowley always carried himself so surely, like he knew who he was and didn’t care what anybody thought of him. Aziraphale had seen that and admired it, been a little jealous of it, though he’d never admit it to himself. He’d wished silently that he could shrug off his compliance—and, really, if he’s honest, his fear—towards Heaven the way Crowley has his fear for Hell.

But then...Aziraphale has also noticed the way Crowley seems preoccupied at times, like he can’t seem to relax no matter how much he wants to. Constantly looking over his shoulder, circling slowly around Aziraphale as if casing the perimeter, making sure nobody is watching them. Constantly carrying the need to protect. Aziraphale had wanted to soothe him. Still did.

After the crying mostly slows and it seems like Crowley has drifted off, Aziraphale gently lifts him, bridal-style, and carries him up the stairs to his bed. As he’s placing him down, lying the blanket over his form in newly-miracled pajamas, his yellow eyes flutter back open, and Crowley looks at Aziraphale in the dark. He can see that the alcohol hasn’t worn off yet.

Crowley reaches a hand out, finds Aziraphale’s. He tangles their fingers together.

“Wanna know something ssstupid,” he murmurs. Aziraphale stares.

“Until you told me that you could never,” Crowley says, voice as soft as he’s ever heard it. “I really thought you might love me.”

And before Aziraphale can even begin to think of how to respond to that gut-punch, Crowley’s taken his hand back and turned away to sleep.

  
  


Aziraphale doesn’t know what to expect the next morning.

Crowley descends the stairs, his hair messy from sleep. He frowns and blinks a few times. 

“Couldn’t turn the lights down a little, could you, angel?”

Aziraphale pauses, then responds, “No lights in here but the sun, my dear.”

“Then turn down the sun,” Crowley grumbles, plopping himself down on the couch. “I’m hungover.”

“Should have sobered up last night,” Aziraphale says automatically, then bites his tongue. 

Crowley looks up.

“Yeah,” he says. “Uh. Yeah. I should have. Listen, angel, I’m sorry about...all that…”

“Nothing to apologize for, my dear,” he says, with false confidence. “I’m surprised you remember it at all. You were quite drunk.”

“Well, I don’t remember it all, I don’t think,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Last thing I remember was, um, singing something, and then crying on the floor about galaxies. Not sure how I got into bed. Rather embarrassing. I’m not usually that much of a mess about the whole Falling business. Sometimes it just gets a bit hard to deal with.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Like I said, it’s not a problem, dear boy. Feel free to, uh, open up any time. You can trust me.”

Aziraphale prays that’s what he’s trying to say is being understood. _I’m not going to abandon you. Not like Her. I promise._

Crowley stares at him a moment longer, his face looking vulnerable and open again, and he sighs. “Thanks, angel.”

  
  


Sometimes, Aziraphale gets a feeling. 

He’s had this feeling as long as he can remember, though it had grown stronger since they started lingering around each other more. A thousand times he’s felt it pass through him, take root in his chest. 

Rome, when Aziraphale’s stammering had somehow coaxed a tiny, amused smile from Crowley’s face. England, those first few months of the 1800’s, when he saw Crowley nearly every day and they would watch the snow begin to melt away and then fall again. Truthfully, he’d felt it in Eden, when the rain had started to fall and Crowley had instinctively moved closer to him, caught off-guard. 

Berlin, in 1941, when Crowley had hopped so ridiculously down the aisle to him, and then handed him a bag of books like it wasn’t important at all, like the simple kindness behind that act hadn’t rocked Aziraphale’s world. That sacred moment. 

The feeling had been so strong then he’d felt like he was going to faint. 

A flutter. A subtle moment of pure joy. Like a little exclamation point in his heart. 

He never acknowledges it, at least not consciously. Not unless he’s drunk. Sometimes when it comes he thinks hazily, in the back of his mind, _I wonder if there are words for this._ But the subconscious keeps a tight hold on that thought, never lets it quite float to the front of his mind. 

Still. _Oh,_ he would think, spotting shiny reddish locks from across a marketplace, feeling a lifting in his soul. _You._

  


  


The feeling hasn’t changed. But the words themselves don’t occur to Aziraphale until two years later, as he is being marched forward underneath flickering fluorescent lighting, wearing a black jacket and dark sunglasses and a tall, lithe body.

Aziraphale glances over at the demons jeering at him, bloodthirsty, calling for his destruction. He thinks of the holy water certainly waiting for him. He marches through the damp, crowded halls, and thinks about how little Crowley fits in with these demons. He understands the isolation he must have always felt, first from the sting of Heaven’s rejection, then from these vile, mean creatures he was never going to fit in with, and then, mistakenly, from his only friend on Earth.

For some ridiculous reason, that song is stuck in his head again, the one Crowley had sung that night with that loose, carefree grin. The one about an undercover angel. 

_I love him,_ Aziraphale thinks suddenly. _I’m in love with him._

The words are so strong and obvious in his brain that he has to take a second to get back into character.

Beelzebub begins reading Crowley’s list of crimes. He spends most of it focusing on looking calm, and trying not to think about Crowley, in Heaven, tied to a chair and surrounded by archangels who want him dead.

“_Fraternizing_ with an _angel_. Conspiring against Hell and Satan.” Beelzebub sneers, finishing the list. “Tell me, Crowley. Was he good companionship? Was he worth it?”

Aziraphale stares up at them for a second, then raises his chin slightly. “Sounds to me like you’re a bit jealous, my Lord.”

Beelzebub’s face is masked in anger, and for a moment, Aziraphale can feel his own anger on Crowley’s behalf bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He manages to transform it into a smirk, even as Beelzebub gestures to a lesser demon to retrieve the holy water.

_I’m going to protect you,_ he thinks, hoping that in some impossible way Crowley hears him. _You’ll never be apart from me again._

  


  


Aziraphale, still in Crowley’s body, has been waiting anxiously on a park bench for what feels like days, although a check of the time tells him it’s only been forty-five minutes. Nevertheless, Crowley is late, and Aziraphale is beginning to worry.

“He’s fine,” he mutters to himself, not quite believing it. “It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

It’s just. If Aziraphale took six thousand years to realize he was in love with Crowley, and then was just one day too late, he’s going to lose his mind.

“Come on, my love,” he mutters, “please.”

He scans the park again, waiting desperately for his own white-clad figure—still strange to be looking for, after so many years of subconsciously scanning for the form he’s currently inhabiting—to appear. _Please._

He’s just about lost hope when he sees a shock of pale white hair appear on the other side of the park.

Aziraphale is up and running before he can think. Crowley’s lanky legs carry him faster than his own would have, and he launches himself at Crowley, who breathes, “_Aziraphale,_” in a tone of pure relief until he’s muffled by the body colliding with his own. 

Aziraphale holds on to Crowley tighter than he ever has before. Crowley, for one, doesn’t even seem surprised. He returns it with equal vigor. 

_I love you, _Aziraphale thinks, and they stand there, holding each other in the middle of St. James’s Park, for a long time before Aziraphale pulls back and cups his hands around Crowley’s face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, not even trying to mask his worry. “Are you hurt?”

Crowley laughs. “The ropes were a bit tight on the wrists, but I’ll be fine, angel. We’re _alive._”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand in his own and places a kiss on his wrist. “My dear,” he sighs, and smiles down at him. He feels like he’s glowing.

Crowley, in Aziraphale’s skin, looks somewhat flustered. “Come on, angel,” he says, tugging him along. “Let’s sit down and get sorted out. All this tartan’s stifling me to death.”

  


  


Dinner at the Ritz is fantastic. Aziraphale doesn’t look away from Crowley once if he can help it. It might be his imagination, but the stars seem brighter than usual as they step outside.

“Come back to the bookshop with me,” he says as they get into the Bentley, and is immensely grateful when Crowley smiles and nods instead of arguing. Aziraphale spends the whole ride staring at the way the streetlights flicker across his cheeks, his neck, his lips. 

Crowley pulls up to the bookshop with all his usual finesse, and parks it with one wheel haphazardly on the curb.

“Honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds, rolling his eyes as the both of them step onto the sidewalk. He begins to walk up to the door but Crowley touches his arm, gently, for just a moment.

“Fancy a walk?” He says, offering a small, crooked smile. “Lots of stars. It’s a beautiful night.”

Aziraphale smiles back. What else can he do? “That it is, my dear.”

They amble off, walking the miraculously empty streets of London. It’s quiet between them for a bit, which Aziraphale doesn’t mind. Their hands hang between them, and they’re walking close enough that Crowley’s fingers have brushed against his once or twice. Aziraphale thinks of the umbrella they’d shared so briefly, two centuries ago. He likes it when there’s so little distance between them. 

”You know I made that one,” Crowley says, pointing up at the sky. 

Aziraphale follows his gaze. “Which one?”

“That star,” he replies. “Antares. Kinda reddish, see.”

“I think so.”

“Mmm. Yeah. It was one of my earlier ones. Not too shabby, I don’t think. One of the brightest we can see from here.”

“Isn’t that the Scorpius constellation?” Aziraphale says, pulling from his relatively small wealth of astronomy knowledge.

Crowley smiles brightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I was just gonna say that.”

Aziraphale looks at him, smiling wide, his glasses pushed up onto his head. His eyes are as yellow and gorgeous as always, and he doesn’t want to look away, so he doesn’t. 

Their hands brush again, and Aziraphale inhales just a bit more sharply than usual.

Crowley bites his lip, then turns back to the sky. “I love the stars,” he sighs. “Really. It might be silly, but I’m still so proud of them. I tried not to think about them for a long time, because it felt like I had to give up that part of myself after I Fell. But…”

Aziraphale watches him, waits for him to continue. Crowley looks at him and gives him a small, funny smile. “Wanna hear something kind of silly?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale replies._ I want to hear everything you have to say. _

“I always thought kind of bitterly about the stars for the first millennium, or so. I learned to sleep just so I wouldn’t have to see them as much. Reminded me of what I’d lost, and all that. But then, one night in—oh, where was it, maybe ancient China? I was sitting with this group of people, and we were all just drinking around a fire.

“I was kind of just hanging by myself, as usual, but I didn’t feel like sleeping, so I stayed. And this woman walked over and sat down next to me, and she pointed up at the stars, and said, ‘Look at that. Do you think that looks more like a bird or a monkey?’ And I laughed and asked what she was talking about. And she said, ‘My friend and I can’t decide. I think it looks like a bird but she thinks if you look at it this way it’s a monkey.’ And she kept talking, but I remember just kind of...stopping, because it was the first time that the thought of making pictures out of stars occurred to me. And something about it was so beautiful to me. It was like I was seeing them new again, for the first time. Like the sky was full of opportunity.”

Crowley smiles, and Aziraphale watches him some more.

“And they keep making up new constellations, all the time. And I love that. How what’s there is always the same, but they see something different, depending on what’s important at the time. I love it.”

Aziraphale is so full of love he thinks he might burst. He looks up at the sky.

“That looks like a snake,” he says, pointing.

Crowley laughs. “Not terribly creative.”

“No,” Aziraphale laughs along. “But I see what’s important to me, I suppose.”

Crowley sucks in a breath at that, letting a tiny smile shine through. They continue walking. 

“I liked that story,” Aziraphale says, then hesitates. “You don’t talk much about Before.”

Crowley shrugs, but the attempt to be casual doesn’t quite come through. “Yeah. It’s usually hard to think about Before, just because the stories always end with—well, you know.”

“The Fall,” Aziraphale says softly. “Yes. I know.”

The two of them, in sync as always, slow to a stop. It’s quiet. Crowley is staring at the sidewalk. 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want,” Aziraphale says. “I know it was unimaginably hard. But if you do want to, I’m here for you. I want to know about you. I—I’ll listen, Crowley. Even if it’s not pretty. I’ll be here for you.”

Crowley looks over at him. He watches for a long moment, just looking into his eyes, and then he takes a long breath.

“Aziraphale,” he says. He looks more nervous than Aziraphale has ever seen him.

“Yes,” he replies. His voice comes out thick, but he doesn’t know why. 

“I just want to tell you,” Crowley says, “That I know that...what we’ve done is dangerous. And I’m glad it’s all worked out, but I’m sorry that I had you do it.”

“My dear, I—”

“And,” he continues, not letting him talk. “I have faith in us—in our plan. And I don’t think Heaven is going to come after you any more, and I don’t think you’re going to Fall. But. In the event, G—Someone forbid, that you do…”

Aziraphale waits. Crowley turns away from him for second, taking a breath, and then turns back. The streetlight shines in his hair.

“Being, um, unloved, is painful in ways you can’t prepare for. And I just wanted to let you know that...even if you Fall...you won’t be. You aren’t. Unloved, I mean.”

Aziraphale is hit with the same feeling as he was that night, years and years ago, like a ton of bricks. He stares, and stares, and can’t think of a thing to say.

So he reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand. He tangles their fingers together.

“My dear,” he chokes out, and his voice is even thicker now.

“Sorry,” Crowley mutters, pulling his hand away and turning to leave. “I know it’s...I know you can’t. I just. Needed you to know.” He starts to move away. 

“Crowley, wait, wait—” Aziraphale grabs his wrist, suddenly wildly, uncontrollably desperate that he stay where he is. 

Crowley turns back around, and Aziraphale pulls him in, unthinking, and kisses him.

His lips are soft, and sweet, and wonderful, and he tastes like coffee and spice and something else unnameable. Aziraphale can feel the love—yes, yes, that’s the word—he’s been holding back surge up in him, pushing him forward, keeping his grip on Crowley tight, his mind a broken record of _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, I love, I love, I love you—_

Crowley pulls back.

“Aziraphale,” he gasps, his eyes wild.

“I love you,” Aziraphale blurts out. “I love you. I love you. I’m so sorry, Crowley, I should have—I shouldn’t—I didn’t—”

Crowley is staring at him as if he’s speaking a different language. “What,” he tries, then shakes his head and tries again. “Wh...you…”

Aziraphale takes a breath. “You’re not unloved, either,” he says. “Of course not. I love you. I’m in love with you. I don’t know how to begin to apologize for not realizing it sooner. You didn’t deserve all those years of feeling unloved, and I’m so, so sorry.”

Crowley still looks wild, but Aziraphale can see in his beautiful yellow eyes that what he’s saying is sinking in, and tears are beginning to well up, though he makes a valiant effort to blink them back.

“Don’t cry, my dear boy,” he murmurs, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. Crowley instinctively leans into it. 

“Is this,” he says, then clears his throat. “Is this. Are you saying this to make me—”

“I’m not _lying_, if that’s what you’re going to ask,” Aziraphale says, and considers offering up ‘I’m an angel, after all,’ before realizing that that means nothing, as he’s lied to Crowley before. He’s never been an exemplary angel, anyway. “I should have said it sooner. And I’m truly sorry for making you wait so long. It’s just...Heaven, you know, with all its rules, and I thought I was doing the angelic thing by pretending that I didn’t care about you. I left you feeling alone for six thousand years. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Crowley whispers. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“A little bit, it was, my dear,” Aziraphale says, giving an apologetic smile. “I should have been braver. More like you.”

Crowley lets out a breathy laugh, and leans forward, dropping his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Aziraphale pulls him back up, and kisses him again, slower, gentler. Crowley responds this time, pushing back against him with a small noise, and crumples the fabric of Aziraphale’s waist in his hands, keeping him in place. Aziraphale cradles his face in his hands. 

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs into his mouth, and Aziraphale smiles.

“My love,” he murmurs back, and the feeling in his heart is as strong as it’s ever been. 

  


  


“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, two months later. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Mmm,” Crowley says. It’s still early in the morning, and he hasn’t quite woken up enough to verbalize very well.

“I know that you like living in London,” he says. “And so do I, as we have done for a long time. But I—I was thinking it might be nice to get a change, don’t you think?”

Crowley looks up. “Move out of London?”

“Nowhere too far,” Aziraphale says hurriedly. “Just somewhere a bit...quieter. More open. If you’d want, of course. I’ll go or stay wherever you want.”

Crowley’s face slowly widens into a smile. “Angel, I’d love nothing more.”

Aziraphale feels an immense relief wash over him. “Really?”

“Of course,” he says. “I mean. London’s great, but it is a city. Can get quite annoying if you’re there too long.”

“Oh good,” Aziraphale says. “Because I was looking at this place, a cottage, and it’s in a region where there’s little noise, and very little light pollution. Quite a bit different from the city.”

“Light pollution,” Crowley repeats.

“Yes,” he says. “Just because—well, I know you love the stars, dear. And here it’s so smogged-up, and that can make it difficult to see the night sky, and I thought that if you wanted, we should go someplace where you can see—”

He’s cut off by Crowley leaning across the counter and kissing him. It’s soft, and joyful, and Aziraphale melts into him. 

He pulls back, grinning. “I love you, angel,” he says. 

Aziraphale grins back. “I love you too, my dear.”

Later that day, the two of them drive over to visit South Downs, to get a good look at the cottage. On the way over, Aziraphale pops in a tape. It’s marked _Alan O’Day, 1977._

_Undercover Angel _starts playing over the speakers of the Bentley. Aziraphale hums along, and gently sings, “_You made me know there’s a love for me out there,_” when the line comes along. 

Crowley looks over at him, smiling, and takes his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> the song referenced is “Undercover Angel” by Alan O’Day. 
> 
> feel free to leave comments and kudos! thanks for reading!!


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